Say Yes

People may say they are satisfied with their lives, but most are deeply unhappy. That's what Regulus had always thought, but the more he watched from a distance, got away from that suffocating house, the more he saw his brother’s smile—the one he never got the chance to witness—the more he felt as though he was wrong. It started to feel as though it was a myth he was telling himself in the hopes that he’d be able to better bear the difficult situation he now found himself in. But he was not like Sirius as much as he always strived to be, and despite his constant efforts, even now, to emulate him. He felt he was stuck being barely a person at all; soon surely he would have to relinquish all semblance of independence he had left, but that was what was expected, and he had never been one to stray.

September 6th, 1972

James was weaving his way through the corridors and stairwells, amidst all the fresh-faced first years, trying to find his way to Transfiguration. McGonagall wouldn’t be pleased if he was late in the very first week of classes. He could hardly believe he'd been one of these bumbling kids only a year prior. As he wove through the halls, he couldn't help but wonder how it was that they were all seemingly intent on getting in his way. There had been an orientation, for goodness’ sake! Trying his best not to drop the books he’d hastily grabbed off his bedside table, he began searching for Sirius, who had hurried ahead of him in the rush to get ready. Somehow, they’d managed to sleep through breakfast entirely. Remus and Pete had probably thought it would be funny to sneak out without waking them, leaving him and Sirius to doze through the whole morning. He knew it was his own fault for not setting an alarm, but he would never admit it. He continued his frenzied search for a familiar face in the crowd, until finally he spotted a flash of Sirius’ distinct jet black hair in the distance. Running towards him, James called out his name, but curiously, Sirius didn’t turn to him. Instead, he kept a steady pace in the complete opposite direction of the Transfiguration class they were currently late for. Finally, having caught up to him, James reached out an arm to firmly grasp his shoulder, spinning his friend swiftly to face him. Or what he thought to be his friend because, upon turning the person around, he was quick to notice this was not Sirius at all. Rather, he looked down at what could have been nearly a carbon copy of his friend were it not for minute differences. The more he stared, the more he noticed the conflicting features that this individual possessed. He saw the depth of their eyes and their porcelain complexion; had he had more time to look, he would have surely stayed entranced far longer, but sobered quickly seeing the contentious scowl the boy was wearing. He opened his mouth, but before he could apologise or attempt, though probably not well, to explain the situation, he felt a swift pull at the back of his shirt, yelling out in surprise.

“Merlin, what the devil are you doing!" he exclaimed, reaching back to attempt to pry the hands tightly gripping the collar of his shirt off.

“A better question is, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing, James?!" Sirius said firmly, still painfully clutching onto the back of James’ shirt, nearly choking him with the force with which he was trying to drag him down the hall. “Regulus hasn’t responded to my post for a whole year, and the next time I see him, he's talking to you?!”.

He yanked at James’ shirt again, making him sputter, unable to speak and defend himself. He took a quick glance back down the hall, and the person he had been with, Regulus, as he now knew, had disappeared. Sirius somehow managed to drag him all the way to class. As they both entered late, he could see the smirk Pete and Remus were sharing.

For the remainder of the year, James would steal glances at Regulus. The more he watched—not creepily, he assured himself—the more he saw the depth of the differences between Sirius and his brother. He was utterly captivating in an almost macabre way. Regulus sat silently, watching and waiting, for what James did not know. He never seemed to wear any expression, other than the occasional scowl, carefully keeping his gaze steady and his face blank. He moved gracefully; he almost seemed to glide as he walked, the hem of his robe hanging around his feet. Most importantly, James noted he never so much as glanced over to them; not once had he looked over to Sirius. James wished he could talk to him again. Regulus seemed like a puzzle only waiting to be solved.

December 24th, 1974

James had returned home for the break, as Sirius had also been compelled to return home by the forceful hand of his wonderful mother, Walburga. Remus and Pete resolved to stay behind and, though James had considered staying with them, his parents insisted he come home for the holidays. His parents, Euphemia and Fleamont Potter, celebrated Christmas as well as Yule, a very peculiar tradition for most households. He awoke this morning with a feeling of dread that he could not explain. It had been happening more and more recently. He would wake up, feeling like there was something he was forgetting and his legs begging him to move, to run. He felt exposed, like everyone could see through him. He sighed, aggressively running his hands over his face. There was no way he could go back to sleep. He felt himself get up. He donned a pair of pants lying on his floor, and the sweater thrown over his desk chair. Gazing out the window, it looked as though the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, much too early for him to usually have been awake. He began to sneak his way out of his room, the door creaking lightly as he revealed the unlit hallway that lay beyond it. No one was up yet. He slipped carefully past his bedroom door, being as silent as he possibly could, feeling as though any noise would ruin the perfection of this empty morning. He gently shut it behind him, hurried nearly soundlessly down the hall, and descended the staircase, reaching the kitchen. He poked his head through the swinging door of the kitchen, seeing some houselves already hard at work. He attempted to retreat, resolving to wait for breakfast, but as he did the floorboards creaked beneath him, alerting the houselves to his presence. Bipsy quickly apparated to his side with a pop.

“What can Bipsy be doing for— ," she began rather loudly.

“Shhhhhhh!!” James exclaimed, putting his hand over her mouth before turning his head and listening hard, hoping to hear if he’d woken up his parents. They wouldn’t be upset with him, but for some reason, he felt like he needed this to be his secret, he needed some part of him that he could keep for himself.

He knelt down in front of Bipsy, removing his hand from her face, and asked, "Can we please whisper? Mum and Dad are still asleep, and I don’t want to wake them up”.

“Bipsy will whisper,” she said, holding a single finger up to her lips.

“Thank you, Bipsy,” he said, letting out a sigh of relief. “Would you mind getting me a treacle tart from the kitchen, please?” he asked.

"Oh, Bipsy is ever so sorry, young master, but you is not to be having those until after dinner,” she replied sheepishly as she looked down at her feet. James felt bad asking her to disobey a request his parents had made of her. He thought for a moment.

“Bipsy, could you tell me where they are hidden?” he asked, with a bit of a mischievous look on his face.

“Ah yes! Bipsy is remembering this. They is hiding on the tippy-top shelf of the pantry," she said with a smile, clearly proud to have been of use.

“Thank you again, Bipsy; you can go now,” James told her with a grin and, after grabbing himself his morning snack, he left for the broom shack in the backyard. It was a crisp morning, and the December air was stinging his face as it whirled around him. The sun shone brightly over the horizon, but the shack was still completely shrouded in darkness, hidden beneath the thick shroud of the trees above. Entering the shack, he grasped aimlessly around him in search of his old broom, an old Cleansweep Six. It wasn’t as good as the one he had now, a brand new Nimbus 1001 as he often boasted, but it would have to do. Finally, after what felt like ages of fruitless searching, he grasped at something that resembled his crumbling old Cleansweep. As he pulled it towards him, it felt like it had much more weight than it should. This realization came much too late, seeing that half the contents of the shack were now tumbling towards him. James shrieked, reaching his arms up above him in a bid to both catch the falling objects and protect his face, his eyes clenched tightly shut. The noise that followed was something his parents could not have possibly slept through. The clang that rang out as the metal and wood of the equipment hit the floor was deafening. James kept his eyes closed a few seconds longer before slowly opening them, looking at the scene before him. He looked over to the house just soon enough to see the light in his parents room turn on.

“Oh bloody hell," he swore, grabbing the broom off the floor and, having exited the shed, attempted to force the door shut before jumping on his broom. He flew up into the air, completely panicked. His mind raced, only thinking about how to get back to his room before his parents noticed him missing. He soared up to his bedroom window, quickly opening it and slipping in. The broom, however, seemed to want to do anything but fit through the window. He pulled as hard as he could,trying any way to try and fit it through the small open window. It didn’t even budge. He could hear footsteps coming towards the room and nearly hit himself as he realised what he should have done from the beginning instead of spending a full minute fighting with his bloody broom. Holding the broom with one hand, he pulled out his wand.

“Reducio,” he whispered, slashing his wand in a V-like motion before hurriedly stuffing the shrunken broom in his pocket just as his father opened the door, peeking in with a surprised look on his face.

“What are you doing up and dressed so early, Jamie?" Fleamont said, entering the room. He squinted, looking over with a wary look on his face. James spun around to face him with a nervous smile plastered on his face.

“Why is your window open?” he asked slowly, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. James glanced nervously at his father, then the window, then back at Fleamont. His mind was racing for an explanation.

“I woke up ‘cause of a loud noise and thought I better take a look since my room has the best view of the shack, you know, but then it got cold, so I put some clothes on,” he said abruptly, he words tumbling quickly from his mouth, his eyes wide and panicky.

“You had a scarf and hat in your room?” Fleamont questioned.

“Yes”

"Well, ok,” Fleamont gave him a suspicious glance, “I’ll go take a look. As much as I trust your word, we can't be too safe. You go back to bed, son," he said before heading back out into the hall, now brightly lit. As soon as he shut the door behind him, James fell into his bed and, overcome with relief, fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow.